The Clockmaker's Son
by afewreelthoughts
Summary: December 1910: Charles Carson could not be more proud of his choice for Downton's newest footman. Elsie Hughes is not so sure.
1. Carson's Choice

Thomas Barrow was quality. Charles Carson knew it because he'd spent his life learning to recognize quality, and now, in his autumn years, he rested assured that he was an expert on the subject.

Elise Hughes was not so certain. "Have you given him the job already?" she asked, standing before the desk in Carson's office.

"I will this very afternoon." He looked satisfied, settled back in his leather chair.

"You've seen all the applicants for the position?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hughes."

"And you don't want to advertise for more?"

"No, Mrs. Hughes."

"And out of _all_of them, you took a shine to _Thomas_?" She knew it would be bad form, at best, to criticize Carson's choice, but she wondered if the old man's mind was no longer working in perfect form.

"The man has the sort of professionalism Downton needs, the very sort I pride myself on bringing into this house."

Elise Hughes opened her mouth to speak, but closed it before any words came out.

"Do you have anything else to say on the matter, Mrs. Hughes?"

She squared her shoulders. "I don't like him, that's all."

"Of course you don't," he said and smiled indulgently.

"He's so vain, Carson!"

"A footman ought to be vain, Mrs. Hughes. It's part of his job to represent the house through his good looks. He cannot be plain, and he cannot be sloppy. Thomas Barrow is neither."

Elsie pressed her lips together the way she did whenever Charles Carson refused for even a moment to see things her way, and Charles Carson raised his eyebrows at her the way he did whenever she refused for even a moment to see that his way of seeing things was right. No one could tell how long they would have stared unblinkingly if there didn't come a knock at the door.

"Come in," said Mr. Carson.

A young man with shiny black hair slipped in through the open door. "Am I interrupting, sir?" The heavy scent of pomade clogged Elsie's nose.

"Not at all," Carson gestured to the chair facing his. "I've called you back to give you good news."

The edges of the young man's mouth twitched, but he fought the smile, and nodded instead.

"You have been hired to work as second footman here at Downton."

When the smile won over Thomas, it did not break over him suddenly in a wash of bright glee, but crept slowly across his face like wine staining a linen tablecloth.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Carson."

"You understand, of course, this is hardly a tenured position. One slip, and we'll advertize for your replacement. Is that clear, Thomas?"

"Yes, Mr. Carson."

"I'll give you a tour of the house this evening, and you will stay the night. On Sunday, you'll be free to go home to gather your belongings and to spend time with your family."

"That won't be necessary, sir. I brought my things with me to Ripon," he said with another smile that said a lesser man would not be so prepared. He shared this smile with Elsie Hughes, and she considered that her cue to speak.

"Free days come rarely here at Downton, Thomas. Take my advice and take them when they're offered."

"Yes, Mrs…"

"Hughes. Mrs. Elsie Hughes," she didn't know why she offered her Christian name to this slimy little man. "How old are you, Thomas?"

"I'm nineteen, Mrs. Hughes."

Nineteen. What nineteen-year-old had such steely eyes? But she had to agree with Carson: the boy looked polished as a perfect piece of silver.

"Were your parents in service, Thomas?"

"My father was a clockmaker."

"Where did he work?"

"Braithwell. Up by Manchester."

"You came from so far away?"

"I couldn't turn down such a wonderful opportunity, Mrs. Hughes."

Carson beamed at that, and Elsie wanted to tell him it had nothing to do with Downton. It couldn't. Those steely grey eyes were running from something.

"Are we quite finished, Mrs. Hughes?" Carson lifted his caterpillar eyebrows.

"As much as I'd love to get to know Thomas better, I do have work to attend to." She glared at Carson for a moment before turning to Downton's newest footman. "I'm glad to have met you, Thomas," she told him. His smiles never reached up to his eyes, that was the problem, she realized as she shut the door behind her.


	2. A Singular Telegram

From that day forward Elsie vowed not to let Thomas Barrow out of her sight, to study his every move for signs of whatever secrets he might harbor. But the young man slipped through Downton like a needle through silk. She saw him only when he had at last fallen from her busy mind, a ghost reminding her of unfinished business, standing like a solider, crowned with his raven black, shoe-shine black, oil black hair putting his livery to shame, perfect lips set in the immaculate emotionless expression that Charles Carson love, love, loved, but set Elsie's teeth on edge.

That expression shattered the morning he received a telegram.

"This arrived for you, Thomas," Charles Carson handed him the small slip of paper after breakfast one day in January. Thomas reclined in his chair and ran a perfect nail through the seal.

"There's a great deal to prepare for Mr. James and Mr. Patrick's arrival this evening," Carson took his seat at the head of the table. "The house must be spotless, but the work is easily done if each of us does their part." This speech would have been longer, Elsie knew, but Carson himself had spent the evening making lists, decanting the vintage, and polishing the stray piece of silver. He had hardly slept.

"I hear he's going to propose to Lady Mary," said Grace, head housemaid and head gossip.

"Lady Mary is entirely too young to be getting proposals," Elsie scoffed.

"I imagine the housemaid's duties will be the same during their stay, Mr. Carson?" said Anna Smith, the newest housemaid, and made of all blonde halo, blue eyes, and naked innocence.

"Thank you for asking," said Carson. "Unless Grace has assigned you to help with the guest rooms, your duties this evening remain the same. Now, for the rest of his stay…" Carson wouldn't have bothered with the housemaids, either, if the man had slept enough.

Elsie Hughes stopped listening. Across the table from where she sat, Thomas Barrow melted. Not the blushing melt of love, but a sickening slackening, as if he were made of wax: his face lengthened, his body sagged. The telegram wrinkled in his grasp. The table stretched between them for infinity until Thomas rose, dropping the message.

"Thomas?" Carson turned to watch the tall, dazed figure walk from the servants' hall and ascend the stairs.

"What would make a man just up and leave like that?" Grace wrinkled her nose, then grinned. "It must be horrifying." She reached towards the crumpled paper.

"We shouldn't look!" Anna scolded and placed a white, white calloused hand on top of the telegram. A sheepish face and wide eyes apologized for her breach of rank.

"Don't you want to know what's gotten Mr. Stiff Lips so upset?"

"Everyone else thinks he's handsome, Grace. Everyone but you."

"He never smiles right."

"Hand it here, girls," Elsie extended her arm, and Anna passed her the piece of paper.

"You've got to wonder, though, don't you?" Grace continued, and the rest of the eyes at the table watched her keenly over their porridge. In the ensuing privacy, Elsie unfolded the telegram underneath the table.

"Anna said we shouldn't look at that, Mrs. Hughes," Carson said softly, lips hovering over her ear. Wordlessly, she handed the small piece of paper over, thinking how easy it would be to tear it into tiny bits, taking something out of the butler's hands. He thought he could take whatever he wished, whenever he wished, if it could do the house some good, the rest of the staff be damned, and Elsie hated him for letting him do it now. He had been wrong about Thomas Barrow once, and she knew he was wrong again. Without the contents of that tiny telegram, the man might be a dangerous mystery to them the rest of their days.

Carson folded the telegram three times and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket. "It likely concerns some personal matter neither you nor I have any business knowing. Thomas will come to his senses soon."

"He'll have to, what with Mr. James and Mr. Patrick arriving in less than twelve hours."

Carson met her eyes with ones as blue as spring, as clear as glass, trusting, trusting eyes. "And. He. Will."


	3. The Picture of Dorian Gray

"Just this once?"

"I make it a rule not to read others' private correspondence, Mrs. Hughes," Carson spat. He paced angrily throughout his office, which grew smaller and smaller as he filled its every corner.

"Just this once, Carson?"

Elsie never meant the words "just this once" when she used them with Charles, but he would never listen to anything that began with "You might be wrong," or any words that suggested that the rules with which he so loved to step in time should not be trusted.

"Thomas Barrow will come down from his room," Carson lifted his nose, as if Thomas were a recalcitrant child, and Carson would enjoy denying him his pudding. "He will come down, or he will suffer the consequences."

"Please. Knowing what that telegram says might help more than you think."

"No!" Carson raised his eyebrows and held the telegram above Elsie's head. "I don't want to."

She sighed and said what she must when nothing else would do. "For the sake of Downton."

Elsie had no time for games this afternoon. Thomas Barrow had not come down that morning, and he did not come down at noon. When he was absent at lunch, Charles sent a hallboy upstairs to fetch him. Thomas had not answered, stayed behind his locked door.

Elsie Hughes did not worry for the sake of the house or for its reputation, not now and not ever. Were all reputations damned, she thought the world might be a kinder place. She worried for the man in front of her. She worried for him more than anyone ought to.

"For the sake of Downton," she repeated. "We need more than ever for everyone to do their part today. Think of the disaster if they don't."

For a brief, brief minute, Carson pouted. His heavy sigh stirred the room. He unfolded the telegram.

"Well then," Elsie said, "read it."

"You read it! You're the one so keen on it."

"Let's read together," she said, and Carson unfolded the tiny piece of paper.

"What on earth!" said Carson.

"Heavens," Elsie gasped.

_My only son Thomas. STOP I learned your secrets today. STOP You disgust me. STOP _

_I hope you feel at home in your footman job. STOP_

_You have no home left here. STOP_

Silence spread between them. From the hall, the ticking of the grandfather clock and the bustle of working men and women; from Carson's pocket, his own quiet watch.

Carson walked to his desk. He sat. "Tell Thomas Barrow to come downstairs. Tell him his job depends on it."

Elsie did not hesitate. Thomas came to the door at the sound of her voice, and he followed her without a word. The red shade of Thomas's lips stained his eyes, and his breaths came disjointed from his chest.

"On account of your actions today," Carson said to him, all disquiet banished from his face, "and the telegram left rather carelessly on the servants' table - "

"I didn't mean to drop it, sir."

"I saved it from the prying eyes of the staff, but in doing so, saw its contents myself. Now, Thomas, I will ask you a few questions, and you will answer them honestly." Eyes of steel bored holes in the footman.

"Yes, sir," Thomas said softly, still a man of melted wax.

"This secret your father refers to..."

In that moment, Thomas Barrow blinked, his back straightened, and his chin lifted. The change was almost imperceptible, from helplessness to white-hot pride.

"Did you kill a man?"

"No, sir."

"Did you steal anything that did not belong to you?"

"No, sir."

"Did you in any way harm another person through your actions?"

"No, sir. I didn't, sir."

"Did you commit a criminal act of any nature?"

Thomas hesitated, and every muscle in Elsie's body tensed. "I thought about it, sir. That's all."

Carson sighed heavily, and Elsie could swear Thomas swayed from the force of it. The butler lit an oil lamp on the table and held the telegram above it. "May I?" Carson asked. Thomas looked confused.

Carson dropped the telegram into the glass hurricane. The flame rose and licked the paper until it was ash. "Thomas Barrow, as of the moment I gave you your job, this place is your home. Do you understand that?"

"Carson?" Elsie said in disbelief. "Are you meaning to say you believe him?"

"Mrs. Hughes means," Carson said with all the earnestness he possessed, "that you have nothing to fear at Downton. Act with integrity and you will be safe here without condition."

"Do you mean that?" Thomas Barrow's eyes cleared, and his face broke into a broken smile full of warmth. He looked like a child of ten.

"I do."

Thomas rubbed his palms on his trousers. "Then I should get to work. Thank you, Mr. Carson. Thank you."

"Follow me upstairs. The dining room needs to be set for dinner."

Elsie followed them in daze until they reached the door to the servants' hall. Carson halted at the sound of giggling. Two hall boys and a kitchen maid crowded over a worn book bound in leather.

"May I ask what is so funny?"

"Nothing, Mr. Carson," said the maid, Liza. "Nothing at all, just a book."

Carson frowned. "May I see that book?"

One of the hallboys, Peter, obliged. Carson's grip tightened on the leather cover. Thomas's clear eyes were wide as saucers, his body as tense as Elsie's had been, ready to flee or strike at a moment's notice.

"What exactly do you find amusing here?"

"It's..." the other hallboy dissolved in giggling. Peter just blushed.

"It's fun to read it, you know," Liza shrugged, "knowing what we all know about Mr. Wilde."

Charles Carson sighed. "Far be it from me to forbid you from reading."

"Well said, Carson," Elsie whispered.

"But this book is not amusing. It's filth." His words cut the air like butter. "And I hope that you, upstanding members of the Downton staff, understand why."

"We do, sir," said Liza.

"Excellent." Charles placed the book down on the table. "There is a great deal of work to be done. Thomas," he said, and walked from the room.

Thomas didn't follow. "It's just a book."

"Excuse me?"

"It's a book about vanity and lying, about how they're wrong. Who cares about Mr. Wilde and what he did?"

Carson's grey eyes were calm. "I do."

"Yes, sir."

Carson began to ascend the stairs, slowly but surely.

"Thomas, are you alright?" Elsie asked, one hand falling on his arm.

The footman smiled at her, an old, slow smile, red blood on a tablecloth.

"What could be wrong?"


End file.
